


Lo Siento

by theysayitsonlyapapermoon



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: F/M, Héctor and Imelda through the years, Héctor can't do right, One Shot Collection, and Imelda can't let a thing go, except it isn't?, humor fluff and angst, variation on a theme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-02-26 06:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13230123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theysayitsonlyapapermoon/pseuds/theysayitsonlyapapermoon
Summary: Stories of Héctor and Imelda throughout their lives, and, for good measure, their deaths.  All featuring some variation of an apology.For whatever reason, they had to apologize a lot.





	1. 1910, 1912

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually not totally sure what to classify this as? They aren't self-contained enough to be one-shots, and I am going chronologically (just with huge time gaps), and I do have something of an ending (I promise). But each chapter will have it's own time period and it's own situation so it's not like a straight forward narrative either...  
> Variation on a theme, I guess.  
> Also the research I was able to squeeze in before just hunkering down and writing is obviously limited, so please have patience as I inevitably get details wrong.  
> Lo siento, in advance!

**1910**

 

“I expected this sort of thing from your brothers,” Sor María tied off the bandage wrap so it remained snug and trimmed the loose end with a deft pair of scissors.  She had been saying that all morning.  

Imelda tried to open and close her fists, relishing in the painful bruised sensation it caused.  “I didn’t start—"

“It doesn’t matter who started what,” Sor María covered Imelda’s wet hair with another towel and began ruthlessly scrubbing it.  “We all must take responsibility for our own sin. There’s no blaming other people for your actions.”

Imelda groaned under the towel.  María yanked it off, leaving her hair standing up in all directions, arguably more of a black mess than how she came in.  “I want you to apologize to that boy,” she continued, “both in person and in prayer. _¿Entiendes?"_  Her long billowy sleeves covered Imelda’s face for a short minute while she tried to re-part the girl’s hair.  She began to methodically brush it out while it was still damp.

Imelda seethed at every snag.  She was more than old enough to wash and brush her own hair.  If anything this incident proved she was capable of taking care of herself.  She absently kicked her legs in the air, just centimeters from touching the floor.  Two large, square bandages were bound over both kneecaps.  The scrapes still stung.  Her muddy, ruined dress hung in a shapeless mass over the lip of a small bucket next to the bathtub.  Her mud caked shoes were in there too.

If she concentrated in her mind she could still hear the satisfying, twanging crack the guitar made when she had swung it down.

A quiet, polite knock sounded at the door.  Sor María threw a baptismal robe over Imelda’s shoulders to hide her under-dress.  Apart from the visible hair, Imelda was just as covered as the nun.  “Come in,” María said.

The door opened but no one really came inside. The form of a huge, mustachioed man, one of the grounds _trabajadores_ Imelda couldn’t name, filled in most of the available doorway.  His broad hands covered the shoulders of a skinny little boy in baggy, mismatched clothing, standing practically in between the man’s feet.  A small purple spot was forming beneath his left eye.

Imelda felt her blood boil at the sight of him.

“Héctor has something he wants to say,” the tall _hombre_ looked down at the unfortunate boy as a kind of lead-in.

Héctor’s gaze flicked up from the ground for the briefest second. “ _L-lo siento, señorita,”_ he said mechanically, as if he’d rehearsed it.  “I’m sorry I pushed you. And pulled your hair. And for saying that you—"

“That’s quite enough, _muchacho_.  We don’t need it repeated.” María interrupted.

“There are _trabajadores y soldados_ everywhere, Sor María,” the man explained, “They don’t check their language. I’m sure he didn’t really know what he was saying.”  

Imelda glared.  The little rat had called her a mule.   _El grande mulo._ Everyone had laughed.  Jeered even.

Héctor’s entire face had been growing steadily more and more red the whole time.  Imelda felt a strange twinge of satisfaction when he flared up all the way to his huge ears at that last part.  His whole head looked like a burnt tomato.

“Then I’m sure the entire village has an apology in order for Señorita Rivera as well,” María said pointedly.

The man suddenly flushed, almost as red as Héctor.  “ _Sí,_ of course, Señorita.”

“That’ll do.”  Sor María had said it with such finality that Imelda almost sprang from her chair and yelled out in wild, joyful abandon.  The nun was on her side, somewhat, after all.  She had made it through the desert at last.  She’d never have to deal with Héctor and his dumb tomato face ever again.

And then the habit rotated slowly, horrifyingly slowly, till Sor María had her eyes in fierce deadlock. “Well, go on, señorita, _”_ she said.  The girl’s heart sank.  The four of them stood in silence for what felt like an eternity.  Héctor peeled his eyes off the floor and actually dared to glance at her.

Deciding this was the only way to end it, Imelda took a deep breath.

_“Sólo lo siento por el guitarra.”_

I’m only sorry for the guitar.

* * *

 

**1912**

Imelda managed to avoid any meaningful interactions with Héctor for nearly two years after that first guitar-icide incident.  She suspected Héctor was likewise avoiding her for exactly the same reason, though it was impossible to know for sure.

They saw each other around, sure, with a church as small as Santa Cecilia that was basically inevitable.  But eye contact, even at a distance, was minimal, verbally speaking out of the question, and entering the same room only permissible during mass or some other event with a minimum of thirty people.

So, when he burst into the sewing room one hot, August afternoon and dove under the table, she was more startled than anything else.

Renata had yelped, clutching the paper flowers they’d been stringing to her chest.  She and Imelda exchanged a confused look.

Imelda flipped up the table cloth, ducking under it.  “What do you think you’re doing—!”

“ _Shhh—_ ” he held up a finger to his lips.  He was curled up into a tight ball, his ankles crossed and lanky knees pulled up to his chin.  She thought she noticed his face fall a little as he placed her in his mind, though that could’ve been her imagination.

"Have you lost your mind—"

He shushed her again.  “ _Silencio, por favor._ ”

“Oh, _hola_ , Héctor,” Renata poked her head under the table, her thick braid swung down towards the floor.  “You ran in so fast I couldn’t tell who it was.”

“ _Hola_ , Renata,” Héctor craned his neck around to greet her.  “Now, _por favor_ , act like I’m not here,” he waved at her to get up.  She shrugged and obliged, going back to the stack of flowers.

“Is this some kind of game—” Imelda demanded, not bothering to be quiet.

“ _—’m hiding_ ,” he hissed through clenched teeth.  He aggressively nodded towards the back door, in the direction he’d just come from.  Imelda sat up, gazing out the open doorway.  The courtyard outside was crawling with clergy members running about frantically.  Everything was littered with chicken feathers.  Several of the nuns were covered head and shoulder with an off-white plaster.  Another was trying to pry her foot out of a bucket.  Padre García chased a set of cluttering chickens across the visible length of the courtyard.

Imelda ducked back under the table, leveling Héctor with a raised eyebrow look that said everything.

“It was an accident!” he spread his hands, looking positively sheepish.

“What are you, the god of accidents?”

“Imeldaaaa--” Renata tapped her fingernail on the table, calling her back.

She reluctantly sat up in her chair, grabbing another flower and stabbing it’s center with the needle just in time.  Sor Josefina entered the doorway.  The sleeves of her black robe soiled with large, tan-colored splatter.  Her round cheeks flushed and glimmered with sweat.

“Have you girls seen anybody come through here?” she asked, out of breath.

Renata shook her head.  “Just us,” she said.  Imelda stiffened her jaw, staring a hole through the red and green patterned table runner.  The fool was lucky the thing hung almost to the floor.

Sor Josefina sighed, nodding and moving on without another word.  The nuns outside had started to scatter off to different buildings.  A huge, white smear stuck out, a blotch on the chapel wall.

“Is it clear?” Héctor’s voice sounded from under the table.

“All clear,” Renata ducked back under the table, taking her end of the flower garland with her.  Imelda tied the end of her thread into a tiny knot.  “Hey, since you’re here, do you know how to play _Anita_?”

“The Yañez song,  _Sí—_?”

“My sister really wants it for her _quinceañera_ but the recording we got is just awful. Do you think you could—?”

“Oh, _s_ _í_ , of course.  When is it?”

“Saturday.  I know it’s last minute—”

Imelda’s fingers stopped working.  She stared at the mountain of folded paper covering the two voices speaking with no visible owners.  She could feel the annoyance start to crescendo in her head.

“No, _no hay bronca—_ ”

“Oh, _gracias_ , I’ll tell my mom—”

“ _Get out from under the table!_ ” Imelda sputtered, throwing up her hands.

“Oh,” Renata’s head reappeared.  She brushed loose hairs out from her eyes.  Héctor slid along the ground, emerging under the table cloth and springing to his feet.

“ _Mucho gracias_ for the sanctuary, señoritas.”

“So, how long are you going to keep ducking under tables?” Imelda twisted the paper center of a bright pink flower, drawing the thread through the little piercing.  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

Most of the girls their age, Imelda included, had shot up in the last year.  Héctor was still very childlike and short.  There wasn’t much of a difference between Héctor now and the Héctor of two years ago.  She was probably a whole head taller than him.  His clothes did fit a little better, even if the trousers were bound at the waist with rope.  The front of his shirt was covered in plaster, some of it dotted on his chin and neck, too.

“Ah, I just got to lay low until something else happens and they forget all about it,” he shoved his hands in his pockets.  “I don’t think any of them knew it was me.”

“Uh huh.”  He probably hadn’t thought through the probability that the next time trouble materialized he’d be the cause of that, too.

“I’d better run,” he ducked under the table one last time to pick up a well worn straw hat.  He pushed it low on his head, nearly to his eyes.  The brim threatened to fold down his ears.  “ _Gracias_ Señorita Renata.”

“No, _gracias_ for the song,” Renata said amiably.

He turned to Imelda, “ _Gracias_ Señorita—” he hesitated, his expression plummeting.  Imelda glared.  He’d actually _forgotten—_

“ _Riv—er—a—_ ” she enunciated each syllable.

He snapped his fingers.  “Señorita Rivera, _gracias_.”  He leaned out the door, feet still firmly planted in the room.  His head swiveled left and then right.  Then he snuck out into the courtyard the rest of the way, waving at the girls over his shoulder as he left.

Imelda stared at Renata with an exasperated look until she was forced to acknowledge it.  Which she did, albeit non-verbally.

“ _Héctor, play my sister a song,_ ” Imelda pitched her voice too high to be authentic to either her or Renata, but the sarcasm more than made up for it.

“ _¿Mande?_ We need someone to play it, and he’s pretty good.  Haven’t you heard him?”  She pulled a handful of flowers towards her end of the table.  

She’d hadn’t, not really, not if you didn’t count the brief moments before their paths actually crossed.  He was willing to mud tackle her over that guitar, so that at least said something.

“I don’t recall.”

“You’re just full of it, Imelda,” she scoffed.  “What were you so upset about?  You looked like you wanted to stab him.”

“I wasn’t upset.  I just don’t like him.”

“What’d he ever do to you?”

Imelda gave a labored sigh.  She didn’t really want to get into it.  “He was always making fun of me.”

“Héctor?”  Renata quirked up an eyebrow.

“Alright, it was one time.  Right after I moved here, we weren’t friends yet, and it was a huge fight and I was so embarrassed,”  her fists knocked the table.  “And he _doesn’t even remember me._ ”

“Maybe you’re making it into a bigger thing than it actually was—?” Renata said, light as feather.  

“He called me a mule.”

“Oh.” Renata pulled her thread out arm's length.  “ _Héctor?_  Are you sure it was him?”

“I wasn’t the one who forgot,” she said pointedly.

* * *

 

They had one rehearsal at the church courtyard the day before the event.  The tables and chairs and most of the decorations had already been set up that morning. Imelda held piles of flower garlands in her arms while some of the older boys attached them around the perimeter in artistic waves.  Renata’s sister loved pink so the whole stage was lined with pink flowers and garlands and flags.  

Renata’s mother enveloped Imelda in a burly hug.  “ _Mucho gracias_ for helping on our special day.”  The large woman released Imelda only to pinch her cheeks between her fingers.  

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she passed the last of the flower train up to Renata’s brother.  He hooked it over a nail, creating a perfect arch over the church entryway.

Renata came out in her procession dress.  One hundred percent pink, pink and white embroidery, with a row of pink ruffles going around the skirt.   Imelda breathed in relief as Señora Garcia turned her enthusiasm on her youngest daughter.

“So beautiful, _mija!_ ”  She spun Renata around, watching how the dress turned.

“ _Gracias, mamá._ ”

Imelda borrowed a seat towards the back, plopping herself down and rotating her ankles.  Señora Garcia had amassed a large collection of dress shoes for the event, which was more than gracious of her, most of Santa Cecilia was lucky to own a single pair.  They certainly looked nice, but her toes pinched and complained after only five minutes.  She didn't care what happened at her  _quinceañera_ so long as the shoes were comfortable.

“Where is your _guitarrista?"_ Señora Garcia asked her daughter.  "I still have his costume.”

“I haven’t seen him,” Renata said simply.

Señora Garcia was promptly distracted by the sight of her eldest, showing the main event dress.  The dress to dwarf all other dresses.  Señora Garcia ran at her, voice pitched up several octaves.

Renata’s dress created a swirling pink spiral when she sat down next to Imelda.

“My _quinceañera_ is gonna be black,” Renata pondered, “like my soul—”

Imelda chuckled.  Renata was probably the sweetest person alive, but even at thirteen she had a healthy love for sarcasm, which was probably how she and Imelda managed to remain friends.

There was a clatter over the cobbelstone walk, and Héctor finally ran in.  Late by nearly twenty minutes.

“Oh, there you are,” Renata gasped, relieved.  She was beginning to think he hadn’t remembered.

“ _Hola, señorita_ ,” Héctor gasped, a little out of breath.  

“I’ll go get Mamá, she’s got your outfit,” Renata left the bench, “Wait right here.”  She didn’t allow Imelda even a sideways glance of protest.  

Imelda and Héctor were promptly left alone.

She stiffened her back and sat with her hands folded in her lap, staring forward at the stage.  Héctor sat down trepidatiously, only two spots away from Imelda.

“Señorita Rivera.” Héctor said in greeting.  He swung the guitar off his back, absently plucking and rotating the pegs.  It was bigger than the last one.  His guitar strap was made from rope, the same kind as belt holding up his trousers.  The run to get there had made him sweaty and his hair stuck up in front.  His feet were dirty, too.

“ _Señor Mulo_ ,” Imelda addressed him back.  It practically jumped out of her throat, automatically, like it had been festering inside her throat all week could no longer be contained.

His head snapped towards her, looking very confused for a whole second.  His eyes went wide. “ _Mul—_  oh, Oh!” he immediately reddened.  “Oh, you did remember that,” he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.  There was that burnt tomato agian.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Look, I’m _really_ sorry I said that to you,” he continued.  “I don’t know why- I think I’d just heard it somewhere and thought it was a compliment.   _Fue tonto_ _._ ”

For some reason, that rubbed terribly at Imelda.  “A _compliment?_ ”  Where had he learned Spanish that a mule was considered a compliment?

“I know, I know I was a jerk.  Do you think we could— I don’t know, forget about it and start over—”

Renata suddenly plopped herself down on the seat next to Héctor.  She handed a cleverly folded pile of jacket and pants on top of her brother’s old _zapatos_.  “Here we go. Can you see if it fits?”

Héctor jumped at the opportunity to be somewhere, anywhere, but there and grabbed the outfit.  He ran from the bench, mumbling a quick _gracias_ on the way.

Renata looked at Imelda like she’d just strangled a rabbit in front of her.  “What?  What happened?”

“He said it as a compliment, Renata. _Un cumplido._ This is how _loco_ he is,” Imelda started venting, “What kind of person calls you _el grande mulo_ on the street and expects you to take it as a compliment?”

“It looked a little like he was apologizing.”  Sweet, naive, Renata, always assuming the best of everyone.

“He’s sorry I broke his _guitarra amada_ last time, that is all.”

“You broke his guitar?” Renata deflated, shrugging a centimeter away from her friend.  “That’s pretty mean—”

Imelda’s jaw dropped.  “Are you kidding me? You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am, Imelda, I am.”

“You weren’t there.  Everybody laughing—”

“It’s just— I don’t know, he always has the guitar.  It’s like breaking his arm.”

“Then he shouldn’t say offensive things,” Imelda tried to sound confident and assured but Renata was sort of getting to her.  Maybe she had overreacted.  Maybe he really didn’t have a concept of what he was saying, it had been a whole two years ago.  They were practically babies back then.  Felipe and Óscar said stupid things all the time and it didn’t send her into a frenzy.  Comparatively.  And Héctor did seem sorry.  Not just a route, mechanical sorry for the benefit of the adults, but genuinely sorry.  Maybe she could try to be a little nicer.

Something had occurred to Renata.  “Are you—” she paused, “certain he said _‘mulo’_?”

Imelda’s brow creased.  “Of course.  I was there.”

“I’ve never heard a guy shout _‘mulo’_ on the street, but it does sound a bit like—” Renata couldn’t bring herself to say it.

Imelda’s heart began to thud, heavy and angry and loud.  She hadn’t known very many off-limit words back when she first came to Santa Cecilia but her vocabulary had broadened a lot as she’d grown.  He hadn’t been parroting an insult, he’d been parroting a catcall.  That was his sick idea of a compliment!  That— that—

She sprang from her chair, ignoring Renata’s cry of protest.  Stone-faced, she marched back into the church, down the hall, intending to barge into  _el b_ _años_ itself if she had to.

Instead she intercepted him around a corner, already dressed in his costume.  He was balanced on one leg, the other bent up towards his hands, tugging one of the shoes over his heel.  He happened to look up and suddenly he dropped it.  His eyes went wide in terror at the sight of her.  With the combination of his posture and her maturity, she towered over him.  He snatched up the guitar, pulling it behind his back.  Imelda took a deep breath.

“ _EL GRANDE CULO?!_   What is your problem?!!” she shrieked.

Héctor turned tail and immediately started to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I've heard various things about the naughtiness status of the word "culo", some people consider it super offensive, others like it's a minor lewd term. I figured Imelda would be livid under any circumstance and it happened to be easily misheard as other words, which pleased my screwball sense of humor. Something like this happened with my brother when he was 9 (yes, he was punished). It sort of reminded me of Héctor editing his song for the sake of Miguel during Everyone Knows Juanita. Watch your language around the little ones, haha.
> 
> -I assumed the name Rivera came from Imelda to begin with, Héctor taking it after they married and not the other way around. Women in Mexico don’t necessarily give up their maiden name in favor of their husband’s the way a lot of English traditions do. And I couldn’t justify Imelda keeping the name of the man she was that furious with for abandoning her, much less passing it to her family and her business and all that.
> 
> -Octaviano Yañez was one of the very early Mexican guitarists ever recorded (if not the first). Big companies like Edison, Columbia, and Victor had been busy recording Mexican artists, particularly folk songs and such, from 1902 up to the revolt against Porfirio Diaz in 1910. Diaz had been really big on marketing Mexican culture to investors of other nations to for funding purposes. "Anita" was one of his songs I just happened to like. The recording I found dated to 1907 so it was genuine to the time period.
> 
> \- La quinceañera before 1910 was apparently more of an upperclass thing (they can be expensive), and there's no set way to celebrate it. It could be a simple as saying a rosary or could be a big blow out fiesta. I mostly pulled details from the quinceañeras I've been to.


	2. 1912

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Héctor develops a crush. Or gets crushed. One of the two.

When he next spoke to her, it was in a moment of inevitable and rising panic.  

Not panic for him, of course.  For him it was more of a light anxiety.  

He wasn’t sure what compelled him to do it, a smart person would make a practice of avoiding things that caused undue anxiety, and Imelda Rivera was certainly on that list. But, as many an adult was prone to point out: for a smart kid, Héctor did a lot of stupid things.

He saw her running up and down by the train tracks while standing inside Senor Flores’ shop across the street.  Her dress was a bright purple color, impossible to miss against the burnt orange sunlight filtering through the mountain backdrop outside.  He had learned to recognize her from a distance, the way a wise rabbit learned to recognize a coyote as a defensive strategy.  

 She slowed down at random and began to meander in circles, wringing her hands.

“You gonna pay for that, _amigo?_ ” Flores eyed him warily.

Héctor looked down at the brown paper package of processed sugar in his hands. The whole reason he was there in the first place was to fetch them for Señora Gutierrez.  He rummaged in his pockets for the pesos she had given him and slapped them on the counter. When Flores shifted to the register for his change, two candies vanished from the front counter into Héctor’s pocket. Partly out of spite.

The sun was halfway obscured by the horizon when he left the shop.  He deliberated turning down the street and heading straight back through town. The last train ran fifteen minutes ago and most of the crowd had dispersed into the plaza.  Gutierrez would expect him back soon and the woman wasn’t exactly patient.  

Imelda started yelling, just loud enough he could make out, “Óscar!” followed by, “Felipe!” into the distance.  Héctor looked down at his bag and sighed. He was always late anyway.

“Señorita!” Héctor called, arriving at the tracks.

Imelda whirled around, the purple skirt actually made a swooshing sound with her turn.  A few strands had escaped from her hair ribbons, getting tugged violently through the wind.  A curious expression shrouded her face.  He had never seen her look frightened before.  

Héctor swallowed. He hadn’t actually come up with anything to say and Imelda clearly wasn’t going to help him out. “Is everything okay?” he finally managed.

He could palpably see the conflict draw over Imelda’s face. She looked him up and down, frowning like she wanted very much to loudly and defiantly tell him off right then but she couldn’t quite bring herself to.

Just as he was about to back away entirely, she confessed, “I can’t find my brothers.”

Héctor froze, considering.

“Well, we could split up.  I could go that way and look,” Héctor pointed south down the track line.  “And you could go that way.”

Imelda started to nod.  “Alright, _está bien_ ,” she turned north and started walking up the track.  After five paces she suddenly turned back around.  “Wait, what if you find them and I can’t find you?”

“Umm,” Héctor looked around.  The last rays of the dying sun flashed on the metal rails.  Soon it would be dark and almost impossible to find much of anything outside of town.

“Yeah, maybe we should— I’ll just follow you.”  He trudged after her, walking through the dead grass alongside the tracks.  Imelda’s boots crunched over the layers of rock that made up the track bed.  The purple dress actually had a darker purple pattern running through it.  Maybe not expensive, but it had to cost some money.

She’d last seen the boys by the train station.  The twins were fascinated with machinery, especially ones with moving wheels, and liked to watch the engines come in.  She had been talking to one of her school friends at the shop next door when the 5:15 train arrived. After her friend left, she turned around and they were gone.  She’d figured they’d be somewhere within eye-shot of the train but after combing the station there was still no sign of them.

“Maybe we should go back and check again,” Héctor suggested.

“I already looked.”

“But they might’ve gone back, that’s where you were last, _sí?_ ”

“ _Ay!_ It’s getting dark,” Imelda twisted her fingers inside the palm of her opposite hand.

“Don’t worry, we’ll find them,” he said, half sure she wasn’t listening to him at all.  She looked back down the tracks.  The brick and adobe station building was a mere dot in the distance, practically invisible in the twilight.  Lamps were starting to turn on inside Santa Cecilia.

“Maybe we should go back to the church.  Get a search party,” Héctor offered.  

Imelda cupped her hands and yelled, “ _Óscar!  Felipe!_ ” She sighed, nervous.  “Maybe we should go back—” she started.

A tiny noise, something high and faint in the distance, perked up in Héctor’s ear.  He stopped her.  “Do you hear that?”

Imelda stared, first at him, then off into the landscape.  The noise came up again, a little louder and then repeated.  He saw in her face that she’d heard it too.

“Up there,” she pointed to a black, rather square shape, sitting far off in the short grass, just to the left of the tracks.  Imelda raced ahead, her skirt hiked up practically to her knees.

The shape turned out to be an old box car, turned onto its side, completely black and ashen. The underbelly of the thing hanging open and vulnerable.  The metal looked gnarled and melted in places, one wheel was utterly missing.  From inside they could hear the boys shouting for Imelda.

“ _¡Qué demonios!_   What are you doing in there?” Imelda shouted at the monolithic black undercarriage of the boxcar.

“We found a cool hideout!” one of the boys replied.

“But now we can’t get out!” the other finished.

“It’s dark in here.”

“And it smells!”

“I swear, I’m gonna bury you two in Veracruz with Santa Anna’s leg,” Imelda threatened. She climbed onto the car’s connection box, careful to avoid the shattered metal piece that was once supposed to latch onto another boxcar.  The ladder that had once ran from the bottom of the car to the roof was now turned sideways, parallel to the ground.  Imelda set one foot against the long, connecting rod that held the ladder together and used the rungs to boost herself up to the top.  Slowly she rose into a standing position, balancing carefully on the sideways ladder.  “How did you boys get up here?” she wondered aloud.

“We climbed!”

“On the ladder!”

“Get us out!”

“Just a second,” Imelda sat on the front of the boxcar and swung her legs over, standing at last on top of the huge car.

No one asked Héctor to follow her up, but he did so anyway.  It was still hot out despite the nightfall, and the cold metal actually felt like a break.  It was slippery, though.  Hard to balance.  Imelda had made the climb almost without thinking.  He had to squint in the fading light for the next hand hold, curl his toes on the metal to keep from slipping.  By the time he’d made it to the top, Imelda was sitting at the edge of the boxcar’s sliding door, mercilessly kicking at it with both boots.

There was a small, pitch black opening in the boxcar, like someone had cracked the huge sliding door open and left it to rust that way.  The metal made a loud, painful squeak each time she kicked it, but it obviously wasn’t opening any further.

“Um, Imelda—?” he approached cautiously.

“What?”

“I don’t think it’s going to budge.”

She kept kicking, eliciting nothing more than a loud metallic noise that mingled with the voices screaming below.

Héctor sat down, letting his feet dangle into the dark void inside the boxcar.  The bag of sugar he sat beside him.  The gap was small, about half as wide as the rungs on the ladder had been spaced.  But if the boys could fit through it shouldn’t be too difficult—

He let both legs vanish into the gap.  The door was just far enough to let him slip through without scraping his nose.  He held onto the top of the boxcar with both hands and lowered himself down. The metal stopped shaking as Imelda finally noticed what he was doing.

“ _Héctor, wait!_ ” She shouted just as he let himself drop.  The boys yelped.

He landed on what felt like a pile of dried grass or leaves.  A ton of the stuff got kicked up into the stifling air inside the boxcar and forced the three of them to cough violently. It smelled like ash.

“What did you do that for?” Imelda yelled down at him. If he squinted just right he could see the outline of her face against the violet sky outside.

“I’m alright,” he coughed once, batting flakes away from his face.  He looked around.  The only available light was coming from the crack in the ceiling but he could just make out a dark silhouette about as tall as his chest with two round, head like features on top.  “ _¿Están ustedes dos bien?_ ” he asked.

“We want to go home!” They said in perfect unison.

“I don’t think they’re hurt or anything,” he shouted back to Imelda.

“ _Eso es genial_ ,” she responded, less enthused than he expected, “now how are you going to get back up?”

He hadn’t thought of that.

The distance he’d fallen wasn’t exactly far, but the space up to the door was at least twice as tall as he was and there was nothing on the smooth metal walls to climb onto.  Compounding that was the surrounding utter darkness. If there was anything around to use for climbing he’d be hard pressed to find it.

“You don’t have a match or anything?” he asked Imelda.

“Afraid not.”

“I guess— go back and get help?”

“Don’t leave us!” one of the boys screamed.

“We’re scared!”  They scrambled into the available light, two perfectly identical bowl-cut hair little boys, staring up at Imelda with dark, pleading eyes.  

“Hey, no, it’s alright—” he reached out, kneeling a little so he’d be at their height.  The boys just stared at him.

Imelda was less comforting.  “Boys, this is Héctor.  Since he has literally no choice but to sit with you until I come back, I want you to treat him nicely, _comprendes?_ ”

“ _Sí_ ,” they groaned.

“Héctor—” she trailed off. “Just— don’t do anything, _por favor_.”

“ _Sí_ ,” he said flatly.

She disappeared from the opening, leaving nothing but sky and a few metallic scraping noises as she made the climb down.

The boxcar was eerily silent for about two seconds.

“Who are you again?” one of the boys asked.

“I’m— Héctor.”

“Why is your name Héctor?” the other asked.

“Uhh, it just always has been, I guess.”

“I’m named after our grandfather.”

“So am I.”

“Oh.  That’s nice.”

“He’s dead now.”

“So is mine.”

Héctor didn’t know quite what to do with that.  “I’m sorry about that.  Which of you is—”

“That’s Óscar,” the one on the left pointed to his brother.

“That’s Felipe,” the one on the right did the same thing.

“But it’s okay if you don’t remember.”

“Most people don’t.”

“I’ll try, I guess.” It could’ve just been the light, or lack thereof, but there was nothing whatsoever to distinguish one from the other.  They were about six years-old.  Both dressed in black pants and the button down white shirts Sor Josefina made for all the church kids.

“Can you whistle?”

“Imelda can whistle but we can’t.”

Héctor tried, only coming up with dry air.  “Guess not.  I know a magic trick, though.” He fished one of the round candy pieces out of his pocket and held it up the dim light.  He shut his hand, twisted his wrist and slowly opened each finger in succession to reveal an empty palm.  He reached behind one of the boy’s ears and pretended to pull the candy out of it.

“Ta da—” the twins just looked confused.  Maybe the trick needed more light.  He gave them the candy anyway.

“It’s too hot in here.”  Óscar, he thought it was Óscar, pulled at the front of his shirt.  

“It smells like something _died._ ”

Héctor took a knee and motioned for the kid’s arm.  He folded over the cuff of the shirt sleeve, creasing it till the fold stayed.  

He lost count of the questions after that.

“What is all this stuff?”

“I think it’s ash.”

“Why does the train carry ash?

“What is ash?”

“It’s like the stuff left over after a fire.  Try not to breathe too much of it in, huh?”  He finished rolling Óscar’s sleeve up to his elbow, tucking the fabric in on itself so it wouldn’t come undone.  Whatever Josefina used on those shirts made them sturdy and thick.  He’d roll his up to the shoulder some days, especially in the summer.  Óscar looked down curious at Héctor’s work and then gave him the other arm.

“Have you ever ridden a train?” Felipe leaned on Héctor’s knee.

“Once.”  He’d gotten as far as San Gerolamo before he got caught and sent back, but he didn’t want to give the twins any ideas so he left those details out.  “How about you two?”

“We’ve been on three trains.”

“One in Mexico City.”

“That was the biggest one.”

“And then one in Veracruz.”

“And then one to come here.  Me next.”  Héctor finished with Óscar’s shirt sleeves and started on the cuff eagerly thrust out in front of his face.

“They let us ride in the engine room for part of it.”

“Imelda was _muy enojado—_ ”

“She said we were lost.”

“She yelled.”

“Hmmm—” Héctor glanced meaningfully at the boys.  “This happens a lot, then?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Imelda yells all the time.”

“She probably wouldn’t if you didn’t run off.”  He gave Felipe’s sleeve one last tug to make sure everything held.  The boxcar was still stuffy and reeked of burnt dust but at least it was something.  “You should apologize to your _hermana_ , okay?  She yells because you made her worried.”

“That’s dumb.”

“Are you Imelda’s boyfriend?”

“Alright, forget I said anything.”

He was saved by light scraping noises of someone climbing back onto the ceiling.

When he craned his head up towards the sky, all he saw was dark.  The scraping noises had gotten louder and erratic.  An animalistic grunting sounded.  Metal clacked.  There was a loud, violent rip and tiny, near invisible white particles rained from the ceiling.

“What is that _—ay!_ ”

Héctor grabbed each child by the back of the collar and yanked them away from the open door.  He pushed them back into the far corner, one behind each arm.  They huddled behind him.  Something flat and cold and blunt poked him in the back, preventing him from pressing any further into the wall.

“ _S_ _ilencio, silencio_ , it’s okay, just be quiet.”  He fixed his eyes on the band of dim light for the slightest movement, the slightest warning that whatever was up there was trying to enter inside.

The growling noise turned deep and terrifying.  He was pretty sure the thing was clawing at the doorway.  If they could fit through then—

He lost control of the boys and one started to scream, followed quickly by the other.  

“Don’t—” he paused, he was never going to get them quiet at this rate.  

But if pretending they weren’t there wasn’t an option then maybe they could pretend to be something worse than what was out there.  

“Make it loud!” he changed his mind.  “Roar, yell— try to sound scary—”

He pulled on the metal bar at his back and found from the rusty creak it made that it was actually some sort of shelf sticking out of the wall.  He boosted himself up and crawled on it.  He raised a fist over his head and punched the ceiling as hard as he could, creating a loud, vibrating, metal racket.  He yelled.

The twins started to shout along with him.  Instead of crying, soon they were roaring.  Héctor banged on the door.  They blocked out the noise of whatever animal was there.  They yelled until their throats scraped.

Something heavy dropped straight down into the boxcar and they all jumped.  The shelving unit he was kneeling on groaned and swayed.

“Knock it off,  _idiotas!_   It’s me!” Imelda shouted at them.

“Imelda!”  The twins ran to her.  She had dropped a wooden ladder into the boxcar, which explained the large banging noise from that direction.  Héctor leaned to get up and the shelf jolted under him.  He heard a loud screech and before he could properly react the shelf dropped out and he was thrown forward.

He landed so hard his ears started to ring.  His face felt white hot, his nose swollen and running.  His mouth stung all over.  His lower lip cracked.  He tasted blood.  There was a spot on his forehead that collided with something sharp, it felt like a nail between his eyes.

Something lifted him up under his arms into a sitting position.  Light pierced sensitive eyes and he turned away.   When his ears stopped screaming he could make out the echo of Imelda yelling _"I'm so sorry, Héctor!  I’m so, so sorry,_ ” over and over.

She pressed some light fabric into his hand and then guided his hand to his face, holding it there.  Her other hand she used to lean his head back a little.  She had a lantern on the floor between them, the flickering warm light hit under her chin and nose and brow in manner more eerie than anything.  The effect put her eyes all in shadow.

“He’s dead! Is he dead?!” one of the twins exclaimed in fascination.

“Look at all the blood!” the other one cried.

“ _¡_ _Dios mío!_ Give him some space, you vultures!” Imelda shouted at them.  “You’ve caused enough trouble today.”  She pushed down a little too hard at the area over his nose and pain flared all the way up through his skull.  He tried to get up but she held him in place.

“Mmmp- ppurrts—” he mumbled.

“What?” Imelda leaned in.

“It hurts.  Your hand—”

“ _OH!_ Oh,” she let his hand go, mumbling another apology.

He groaned, tipping his head back.  Everything neck up still felt like a bonfire.  “You should keep pressure on it,” she suggested.  “Stop the blood.”  He reinforced his hold on the light rag she’d given him.

“We thought you were a jaguar,” Felipe told her.

“Héctor was trying to save us,” Óscar added.

“I think you heard a coyote,” Imelda said, “I saw it run off.”

“Where’d you get the ladder?” Héctor mumbled with his nose pressed closed.

“I sort of— borrowed it.”

“Borrowed?”

“We’ll give it back.  How’s your nose? Let me see.”

He pulled the cloth away and tried sitting up.  His whole face felt like a giant bruise.  One of his nostrils swelled and started to run and he clamped the cloth back on.

“ _Lo siento mucho_.  Boys, tell Héctor you’re sorry, he got hurt trying to help you.”

The boys chorused an apology in unison.

“It’s really my fault, I shouldn’t have climbed on that thing.”

“Oh, I know that,” Imelda stood up, knocking ash off her skirt.  “But I still feel awful about it.  You didn’t have to help me with them.”  She picked up the lantern in one hand and extended the other towards him.  

It took a second for Héctor to put it together that she was offering to help him stand.  He felt dizzy.

* * *

 

It took awhile to get back into town.  Getting the ladder out of the boxcar took a bit of effort, especially since Imelda kept waving off Héctor’s assistance on the grounds that he was injured.  She finally managed to pull it up and just tossed it over the side of the boxcar so she wouldn’t have to bother with it on the climb down.

The boxcar door was littered on the outside with crunchy white particles and the occasional bit of ripped paper.  So much for his errand.

They stopped once to return the ladder and the lantern to the side of a small adobe hut on the way back into town.  From there they had just enough street light to make their way without fear of getting lost any further.  His wounds had stopped actively bleeding, but he was pretty sure he looked like a mess.  There were blood droplets on his shirt and his pant legs were covered in dust and grime from kneeling in that boxcar so long.

The twins each held one of Imelda’s hands as they walked, monotonously informing her how tired they were every dozen paces or so.  At one corner they accidentally bumped as Héctor tried to move left and Imelda tried to lead the boys right.

“Where are you going? The church is—" Imelda pointed right towards the building at the end of the winding cobblestone road, bell tower standing conspicuously over all the low standing red and white houses.

“I know, I just have to take care of something,” Héctor passed her.

“Are you kidding? You’re still all bloody—”

“I’m already crazy late,” Héctor started down the fork's left hand side.  “You go home. I’ll be fine.”

Imelda looked to the church and then back to Héctor.  “With your luck, that coyote is going to track you down and devour you in the dark.”  She marched after him, pulling her brothers along by the hand.

“Imelda!” They whined in unison.

“Hush, consider this penance for your behavior earlier,” she scolded them.

“You really don’t have to—” Héctor started.

“We don’t mind at all,” Imelda strode confidently despite the little protests coming from Óscar and Felipe.

* * *

 

Héctor’s destination was a little restaurant on the northside of town, only a few blocks from the church.  The swinging door out front was painted a very bright green, but it was harder to tell at night.  Every window on the first floor was plastered with a sign, too dark to read.  A banner reading _Gutierrez_ in bright red script hung over the doorway.  Music could faintly be heard from inside and Héctor realized he’d been missing mariachi night.

Instead of walking through the front, Héctor led them behind the building to a plain door in the back.  He rapped loudly on it to be heard over the music.

The door flew open.  A familiar face in a white dinner jacket and apron stood silhouetted in the active kitchen light.  

He took one look at Héctor and crossed himself.  “Tía!” His voice boomed over his shoulder.

“ _Gracias, Ernesto,_ ” Héctor said.

The young man chuckled, shaking his head.  “I can’t wait to see how messed up the other guy is, eh _chamaco?_ ”  One of Ernesto’s large hands came down to affectionately tousle Héctor’s hair.

“It wasn’t a fight,” Héctor said.

“ _Ay dios, Héctor!_ ”  Señora Gutierrez elbowed Ernesto to get out the doorway.  “I’ve had Jorge and Carlos out looking for an hour, _¿Dónde has estado?_ ”  She knelt down, hand under Héctor’s chin, turning his head this way and that to survey the damage.  Her normally round, cheery face was pulled tight and creased, thick eyebrows pulled down.  “What happened?”

“He was helping me find them,” Imelda explained.  “They were hiding in an abandoned boxcar and, well, there was an accident and he fell.”

Tía clicked her tongue. “Doesn't always pay to do right, huh, _muchacho?_   Does this hurt?”  She touched her index finger to the tip of his nose.  He felt a dull ache.

“A little.”

“I don’t think it’s broken.” She glanced around at Imelda and the twins, as if noticing them for the first time.  

“They ran off?” Tía asked.  Imelda nodded.  Tía sized them up quickly.  “You _gemelos_ should stick closer to your _hermana_.  La Llorona comes at night and steals wandering children to replace the ones she lost,” her eyes took on a mischievous glaze.  The boys looked at each other, uncomfortable.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” She rose on aching knees, gently pushed Héctor by his shoulders into the restaurant.  “Ernesto, have José make a few extra plates.”

“ _Sí,_ Señora.”

He took a deep breath.  The air stung the little cut on his lip.  “Tía, I lost the sugar,” Héctor told her.

“I know.  It’s alright, _mijo._ ”

* * *

 

“I didn’t know you had a _tía_ ,” Imelda said.

“Huh?  Oh, we’re not— she’s sort of everyone’s _tía_.  We all call her that.”

“Oh,” Imelda pulled one of her brothers to her side.  His head was starting to loll on the back of his chair, eyes lazy and closing.  They sat at a small table in the front of the kitchen, just clear of the high traffic of waitstaff heading back and forth over the barrier between the cooking and dining area.  Ernesto was taking frequent breaks, the first to give Héctor a spare shirt, and the others to bring them more food and hear the day’s story over again.

“Pretty resilient for such a _chaparrito_ ,” he clapped Héctor’s back proudly.  Héctor winced.  He felt much better now that he was free of bloodstains and Tía only had to bandage the cut on his forehead, but everything above the collar was still awfuly sore.

Imelda watched Ernesto head into the dining area with a tray full of food.  “Do you live here or something?  Everybody here knows you.”

“No, I lived at the church my whole life,” he explained.  “But Tía lets me eat here whenever I want and I’ll do little jobs for her.  We’ve been friends since I was, well, them,” he pointed at the twin nodding off on Imelda’s shoulder.  The other was sprawled out over another chair, head resting on his sister’s lap, already fast asleep.

“I used to sneak in to listen to the music, there’s a bad lock on the second floor— it’s unimportant.  Anyway, she caught me once and told me if I swept out the kitchen in the morning I could stay for as long as I wanted and it sort of took off from there.”

Imelda nodded in understanding.  “So, the guitar—”

“Technically is hers.”

Imelda didn’t reply, turning instead to look out the kitchen and into the dining room where the band was beginning another set.  

Héctor looked down at his hands, still holding onto the torn up bloody rag Imelda had given him.  He hadn’t noticed it in the dark, but here in the properly lit kitchen he could plainly see, in between the bloodstains, the rich shade of purple in the original fabric.  His fingers closed around it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I'm pretty sure that Oscar and Felipe were younger than Imelda. There is a reason she's functionally parenting them here more than just the expectation of the time period, but we'll get into that later.
> 
> -The first rail line in Mexico went up in 1873 from Veracruz to Mexico City after a ton of starts and stops in construction for political reasons. After that most of the rail transport were built by foreign companies, British, French, and American. In 1909 the government created a company to bring the main rail lines under national control, Ferrocarriles Nacionales de México (FNM). Throughout the revolution trains were obviously a valuable target for revolutionaries and for bandits, they made transportation cheaper and the land more valuable. A lot were either neglected or damaged or co-opted by revolutionaries.
> 
> -General Santa Anna (yes, the Alamo guy) famously held a funeral with full military honors for his amputated leg after losing it to French grapeshot during the Pastry War (not making this up). The leg was buried in Santa Anna's hacienda in Veracruz in 1838, however he had it dug up and brought to Mexico City in a lavish parade when he assumed the presidency in 1842, after which it was reburied. And then dug up again by angry rioters. His prosthetic leg was captured in 1847 by the 4th Illinois Infantry during the Mexican-American war and brought back to the state where it remains to this very day. Technically the leg was no where near Veracruz in 1912, but "I'm going to bury you in Veracruz then rebury you in Mexico City and then protesters will dig you up and drag you through the streets" doesn't roll off the tongue.
> 
> -San Gerolamo is a place I completely made up. Named for Gerolamo Emiliani, the patron saint of orphans.
> 
> -I originally started this as a sort of origin story for Héctor's gold tooth (the tooth was the first clue I picked up on in the movie--) but after watching it again, I'm pretty sure Héctor didn't actually have a gold tooth in life. I think his skeleton form has one just because the guitar has one and not the other way around. But I liked everything else happening between Héctor and Imelda and the twins so I kept it and just made it a general face-meet-metal accident.


End file.
